


Good Company

by vials



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vials/pseuds/vials
Summary: Q inadvertently confesses he can't dance, and James isn't going to let a sprained ankle stop him from teaching him.





	Good Company

The room was bathed only in the glow from the television, and aside from the low murmur from whatever trashy late night cop show was playing, the room was silent. James was lounged on the sofa, his eyes closed but not asleep, and Q made no sound as he moved softly around in his thick socks, carefully picking up plates and cups from the coffee table and bringing them through to the kitchen. They hadn’t meant to stay up this late, of course – James was supposed to be recovering, and Q knew that really he should be the responsible one here – but there had been several terrible horror movies on and they could never resist a chance to ridicule the characters and talk about how if they had been in that situation, they would of course have been absolutely fine. Now it was close to three in the morning, and while James didn’t have work the next day, Q certainly did.

“Thought you weren’t doing the dishes until the morning,” James said sleepily, when Q returned to the living room.

“I’m only bringing them through,” Q replied, checking to make sure he had got everything. “The cats don’t trust dishes in the sink; they’re worried they’ll get wet. They’ll eat anything in here, though, and I cannot be bothered with angry cats who’ve just licked hot curry off the plates.”

James laughed. “It would serve them right.”

“And I trust you’d get up to deal with the ensuing mess?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow. “I think not. Come on, you need to go to bed. You can’t sleep on the sofa.”

“I could, technically.”

“Well, _technically_ I suppose you could, but in your state you wouldn’t thank yourself for it. Do you need a hand?”

James sat up, grinning. “I would probably crush you if you tried to take any useful weight, Q. I’ll be fine. Just make sure those bloody cats don’t try and trip me up. I swear they wait for me.”

He hauled himself up, unsteadily at first, and carefully put his injured foot down, testing the weight. After a brief grimace he seemed to find the right balance, and with an awkward limp, took a test step. Through the darkness, Q could see the white of the bandage around his ankle, and he knew that there would be more where that came from under James’s T-shirt. How the man managed to return home more banged up every time, Q didn’t know. Probably to give him his bi-monthly heart attacks, no doubt. 

“Be careful,” Q warned, out of habit.

“Relax, Q. It’s only sprained.”

“Well, you don’t need to go about making it worse, do you?”

“Have you ever broken a bone?” James asked, curiously, and Q watched him for a moment, wondering if it was another one of James’s tricks, if he was going to talk himself into letting James get away with doing something he shouldn’t.

“Not since I was younger,” he eventually said, deciding it was a genuine question. “When I was seven I broke my arm trying to jump from my bedroom window onto the trampoline in the garden, which wasn’t one of my smartest moments. When I was nine my parents insisted on ensuring I was more _well-rounded_ and put me on this ghastly activity programme. I finally got to quit after I broke my ankle tripping over my own feet in dance class. Not exactly as dramatic as anything you’ve done, I’m sure, but at least I learned my lesson.”

Q said it with a cheeky smile; James returned it, and then something almost devious flickered across his features.

“You don’t know how to dance?” he asked, and Q detected his train of thought a fraction of a second too late.

“I really don’t think –”

“That’s a travesty, Q. An educated little thing like you doesn’t know how to dance? Come on, I’ll teach you.”

“You have a sprained –”

“We’re hardly going to be throwing one another around the room, are we?” James asked, still wearing that triumphant smile Q was far too accustomed to seeing.

“You would be surprised,” Q protested. “I could probably manage it through a sheer accident. Last time I tried this I broke my ankle! Do you really want to risk this?”

“But you didn’t have me as a teacher then, did you?” James asked, and before Q could protest further he had closed the gap between them with a single uneven step. “Here. I promise I’ll go so easy. If I can do it on a sprained ankle how hard can it be?”

“I have two left feet, James. I’m hopeless.”

“You will be, with that attitude.”

Desperately, Q tried the only thing he had left. “If you end up hurting your ankle further, it’ll be even longer until you can get back on the field.”

“Well,” James said, moving one of Q’s hands to his shoulder. “Number one, it’s highly unlikely that will happen. Number two, I know for a fact that you would absolutely love it if I didn’t return to the field too quickly. So either way, there’s nothing to worry about. Hand there, that’s it. Step one down, not so difficult, is it? Now, take my other hand here, like this…”

Q’s flat was not very large, especially with both he and James’s things crammed into it, along with two cats. Between his own book collection and James’s there was what amounted to a library to find space for, and when all of the furniture, computers, various electronic parts, and cat toys were taken into account, free space in the flat was difficult to come by. The impromptu dancing lesson therefore had a space of floor no more than five square feet to call its own, which was perhaps a blessing seems there was limited room for error. It wasn’t entirely free from risks – several times Q had to stumble to narrowly avoid a stray book or plug, and every so often James would have to discreetly kick something another few inches out of their way, but Q still hadn’t fallen on his face yet and all his bones were so far intact, so it was already a step up from the last time.

“Oh, shit—!”

Q had spoken too soon; mixing his feet up he almost lost his balance, but luckily James’s arm was firmly around his waist and he easily spun him out of the fall, Q clinging tightly to him, his cheeks warm. “I told you I was rubbish at this.”

James laughed, and Q could feel the rumble of it where he was pressed against his chest. “Everyone has to start somewhere. You’re not totally hopeless.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” Q said, giving a weak laugh. “I am hopeless.”

“Well, maybe a little bit.”

“I told you.”

“I suppose you can’t be perfect at everything,” James said sincerely, before adding, “unless you’re me, of course.”

“I _knew_ you were going to say that,” Q groaned. 

“Oh, would you look at that? If I distract you with bickering you remember all the moves,” James said, before laughing again as Q abruptly realised he had managed to keep up for the last thirty seconds and abruptly stumbled. “You’re an over-thinker, that’s what you are.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Q said. “Maybe I’d improve if we had something better to dance to than police sirens.”

“I don’t know, I think the mark of true talent is being able to work with what you’ve got. Unless that’s your way of saying you want to go to a club, of course…”

“Absolutely not! Besides, they’re all closed now.”

“Shame. Maybe another night.”

“Never,” Q grimaced. “I hate dancing.”

“For someone who hates it you seem in no hurry to leave,” James teased, and Q looked up at him, squeezing his hand.

“I suppose the company’s alright.”


End file.
